"Mine is Robert Grame. Won't you tell me yours?"
"Oh, it's Kate.—Here's that wicked Lucy coming! She's going to groan at me for jumping here. She says it's not reverent."
A charming young lady of some twenty years was coming up the path. She wore a scarlet cloak, its hood lined with white silk; a straw hat shaded her fair face, blushing very much just now; in her dark-grey eyes might be read vexation, as she addressed Mr. Grame.
"I hope Kate has not been rude? I hope you will excuse her heedlessness in this place. She is but a little girl."
"It's only the new parson, Lucy," broke in Kate without ceremony. "He says his name's Robert Grame."
"Oh, Kate, don't! How shall we ever teach you manners?" reprimanded the young lady in much distress. "She has been greatly indulged, sir," turning to the clergyman.
"I can well understand that," he said, with a bright smile. "I presume that I have the honour of speaking to the daughter of my patron—Captain Monk?"
"No; Captain Monk is my uncle: I am Lucy Carradyne."
As the young clergyman stood, hat in hand, a feeling came over him that he had never seen so sweet a face as the one he was looking at. Miss Lucy Carradyne was saying to herself, "What a nice countenance he has! What kindly, earnest eyes!"
"This little lady tells me her name is Kate."